


Disciplinary Action

by terma_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-01-01
Updated: 2002-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:07:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26535565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terma_archivist/pseuds/terma_archivist
Summary: What might have happened after Mulder left Krycek to Skinner that night on the balcony.
Relationships: Alex Krycek/Walter Skinner
Kudos: 3
Collections: TER/MA





	Disciplinary Action

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alicettlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [TER/MA](https://fanlore.org/wiki/TER/MA) and was moved to the AO3 as part of the Open Doors project in 2019. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are the creator and would like to claim this work, please contact me using the e-mail address on [the TER/MA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/terma/profile).  
> DISCLAIMER: Okay, so now they're free for all (right? right?) Previously published in Dark Fantasies 8 (thank you JoAnn!) by Maverick Press. SPOILERS: All eps up up to that infamous night. for Kristina, whose fault it all is to begin with...

  
**Disciplinary Action  
by Garnet**

  
Krycek's stomach hurt and he was cold and miserable and wondering if he'd ever get his life back under control. His control. Not somebody else's. 

Sure, he had been free for a little while Or as free as anyone could be who was on the run, always looking over their shoulder, just trying to survive. Knowing the whole time that there was nowhere really that he could hide for long, nowhere that they wouldn't eventually find him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a good night's sleep. The last time he'd enjoyed what he was eating. 

And then there was that time that he couldn't remember at all. A great aching blankness in the middle of his memory. From getting beat up on at the airport in Hong Kong until he found himself puking up his guts in some godforsaken abandoned missile silo in the middle of North Dakota. Not that he had known that at the time. 

He had almost died there. Down in the dark and in the cold. Even now, he tried not to remember it too clearly, tried not to remember how close he had come to being broken by it. How fucking grateful he had been to the man who had finally turned up and placed a deal in front of him—work for him and live, refuse and be left there to die. It hadn't been a choice. By that time, he would have damn well got down on his knees and kissed the other man's feet just for one single sip of water. 

Which had eventually lead him to the militia group and back to Mulder and to this balcony in the middle of the night. 

To being left handcuffed to this damn balcony in the middle of the night. 

He didn't know all the details of the plan, but then he was used to that. Used to being used. To being a pawn in some greater game. He rarely bothered to fight it anymore. His one brief fling at freedom was over and what was left of his life no longer belonged to him anymore. If it ever really had. 

Mulder was a pawn, too. But he kept fighting it. Kept resenting it. Even when there wasn't a point to it anymore. Even when it hurt him to keep on fighting. 

He wasn't sure if he should envy him that or scoff at the futility of it. The stupidity. 

Still, Mulder wasn't the one stuck out here in the cold. Mulder wasn't the one who'd gotten slammed in the stomach not once but twice in the last few hours. And, most important of all—despite all their efforts, in many ways, in the ways that mattered the most—Mulder still belonged to himself. He could still have a future if he wanted one. Could have a life. 

Krycek huddled deeper into his jacket, but it didn't help. The wind was cutting up this high and he couldn't hardly feel his right hand or wrist anymore, couldn't even feel the weight of his body dragging on them. Which was probably a godsend—the skin there had already been scraped raw before he'd even been dragged out here to enjoy the weather. Mulder hadn't been exactly gentle with him. No more so than Skinner. While, Scully...those brilliant blue eyes of hers had just looked the other way while her partner had taken out his resentment on him. As if she got a vicarious thrill of her own out of it. The cool little bitch. 

He wasn't sure who hated him more. Oddly though, despite what they all likely thought of him, he didn't hate any of them. Well, except maybe Skinner a little. And even he wasn't sure why exactly. 

Maybe he just had it in for authority figures these days. 

Or maybe it was simpler than that; out of all three of them, Assistant Director Walter Skinner seemed the most probable to have the balls to actually kill him. Which made him the greatest threat. 

He certainly knew how to hit. How to intimidate. And he had been hit and intimidated by the very best. 

Krycek tried to curl up even tighter, but the wind seemed to get in under his jacket anyway, to find its way down his collar, and he realized that, at some point, he had begun to shiver. The movement made his shoulder twinge in its awkward angle, made his stomach ache even worse. 

He pressed his forehead to his knees and closed his eyes as tight as they could go, tried to tune it all out. Tried to remember better days, better things, but it eluded him. In the end, the only thing that came to mind was something small, something he'd thought to have forgotten—the take-out meal he and Mulder had shared in their New York hotel room back on that first case. Mulder finally breaking away from discussion of Augustus Cole to tell him some story of his time in Violent Crimes. Something that turned out to be a bad joke in the end. And he hadn't seen it coming and had been caught out and Mulder had actually smiled at him, hazel eyes slyly amused at his own look of surprise. Of chagrin. 

The smile had taken ten years off Mulder. Made him see just who he might be if he didn't spend all his time being fixated and paranoid. Made him actually like the man, an emotional response he hadn't been able to afford. Not if he was to do what he had to do. And in the end he had done what he had to do and perhaps it had been Mulder's fault that some small part of him had resented it and felt...well, not guilty, not exactly, but...bad about it. About hurting the man who'd smiled like that at him. Who had actually begun to accept him and trust him despite his better judgment. 

Who now spat his name at him as if it were a curse and hit him with the butt of an assault rifle after he'd already surrendered. 

Not all of it had been a lie, though he doubted Mulder would believe anything of what he'd ever said to him after what had happened between them. But he had respected the man, respected his work. Even briefly wished that brilliant mind could have chosen something else to focus on, rather than having it lead him right up against secrets that his own government wanted to keep under wraps. Secrets that could destroy the very fabric of society if they were ever to get out and be believed. 

Secrets like the one he was leading Mulder to right now. Under orders. Not knowing what the outcome might be. His death. Mulder's. Or the death of more of what drove Mulder to do what he did, despite what it cost him. Another piece torn from his still-breathing body. Another brick yanked away from the wall that protected his sometimes suspect grip on reality. 

He didn't want to destroy the man any more than he wanted to kill him. But what he wanted didn't matter. Hadn't mattered in years. 

He shifted again, trying to get comfortable. But there was no comfort. 

Still, after a time, he thought he'd slept a little, because the next thing he knew he heard the sound of a door scraping open. 

And found Skinner staring out at him, his face as closed-off as it ever was. Those dark eyes completely unreadable. Cold as the wind whipping across his balcony. 

Krycek flinched back before he could catch himself and his wrist jerked in the handcuff, making the chain rattle against the railing. Then he reached for that still place inside him—the place he lived in when he killed, when he was made to do what he didn't want to do—and looked back at the man with an equally cool look on his own face. 

Denying the unwelcome trickle of fear that ran through him. Shit, how did the man manage to look so menacing in nothing but a pair of pajama bottoms? 

Skinner just stared back at him a long moment, then was moving towards him. Everything about him controlled, neat and precise of motion. One hand folding into the collar of his jacket and using it to haul him upwards as if his weight meant nothing. Turning him and slamming him into the edge of the balcony before he could even think about fighting back. Keeping him there with the force of his own body as he slipped the key into the handcuff and unlocked it from the railing. 

Krycek knew his chance when he saw it and he snapped his left elbow back into the man behind him in that instant, tried to turn and twist himself free. But Skinner just took the blow as if it were nothing and caught him and slammed him back again. Harder this time. A strong grip closed on his left wrist and used the hold to bend his arm up behind him. High enough to hurt. Then he was pushing him forward until he was bent over the edge and endless space yawned before him. He gasped and then the last of his air was abruptly crushed out of him as Skinner shoved him forward once more, as if for good measure. 

His ribs scraped across metal and he bit back another sound, not wanting to give the man the satisfaction. 

A little more desperately now, Krycek tried to bring his right hand back around, aiming low, aiming dirty, but Skinner caught it as it skidded across his thigh and bent it up behind him as well. 

Then icy steel closed tightly around his left wrist as well, trapping his arms behind his back. 

A moment later, the other man was leaning into him, deliberately shoving him a few more inches out into the empty air that lay before him. Twisting his cuffed hands up even higher, until his shoulders screamed from the pressure. And he could barely breathe at all anymore, let alone find the means to curse at him. 

He stared down at the drop, at the streets so far below. Briefly wondered what it would feel like to fall, to hit that pavement, to have it break his body. Would it be instantaneous or would he feel it all first, know himself to be dying. 

Then the man behind him moved again, leaning into him. And warm breath abruptly brushed across the side of his face. Close, so close. 

"Told you I wasn't done with you, boy," Skinner hissed. Once more, he made the word an insult. A threat. And backed it up with a sudden twist to his cuffed hands, sending white-hot pain lancing into his neck and shoulders. 

Krycek steeled himself and tried to twist away from that grip, tried to kick back at the man holding him. But Skinner was immovable; the other man didn't wince, didn't fight back, just let him struggle against that impossible strength, that ruthless grip, until the pain finally proved to be too much. Until Krycek was finally forced to quit, panting hard, his eyes half-closed. 

"Done?" the older man asked then, a hint of impatience making the word harsh. 

Not waiting for an answer, he yanked back on Krycek and turned him, shoving him ahead of him towards the open door. Force-marching him inside. Then giving him one great shove forward into the room that immediately swept his balance away. 

Krycek fell, instinctively trying to bring his arms forward to catch himself, but only succeeding in landing with bruising force on his right shoulder, his right hip. The rug burned at his face. 

"Shit," he hissed. He flipped himself over on his back, trying to get his feet back under him. But he had only gotten to his knees, when Skinner was turning back to face him, the balcony door now closed behind him. Locking out the night. Locking him inside with him. 

Krycek paused then, glancing upwards at him, as the other man took a step towards him and stopped, the light from the distant stairwell just touching him, revealing the impassive look on his face. Skinner paused then, too far away to launch an attack, too close to attempt to make an escape, and folded his arms over his bare chest. 

Dark eyes moved to stare down at him, not even the masking lenses of the glasses managing to make the man look mild. Civilized. Anything other than the threat that he was—a man who felt he owed him something dear and was more than willing to take it out on him in blood and pain and humiliation. 

Then the corner of Skinner's mouth curved up, not enough to make it a smile, but more than enough to make Krycek's blood turn cold. Make his stomach clench around itself. 

"Looks good on you," he said, that deep voice sounding almost amused. Almost. "Not that prayer will do you any good." 

"Fuck you," Krycek spat back. Then felt the coldness spread through him as even that thin edge of a smile vanished. He realized that he was shivering again, though the room was warm around him. 

"A fine recommendation, agent," Skinner replied. "I'll be sure to take it under advisement." 

Krycek swallowed. Then he straightened and got himself back under control. Let a slight smile of his own grace his lips. Kept his eyes fixed cleanly on the other man. "Mulder needs me," he said evenly. "Needs what I know. You can't kill me." 

Those dark eyes didn't blink. "Agent Mulder is used to disappointment. A state that you've helped to engrain in him, I might add. Besides...who says I won't get the information he wants out of you first." 

Krycek gave a little sharp shake of his head. "You could try," he said, making sure his tone revealed how futile that effort would be. At least, that was one thing he was sure of, one thing that had been learned entirely too well and painfully. Skinner might be able to hurt him, might be able to make him cry out, even to scream if it came to that, but he'd never break him. No one would ever break him again. 

No one could possibly hurt him enough to match what the silo had done to him. Those long days of cold and thirst and hunger and sheer loneliness and waking despair. And even that hadn't broken him. At least, not that one last piece of him that had held out against it, against trying to do himself in before he lost the strength anymore. It had been close. Closer almost than he could bear thinking about, especially late at night, when he found himself similarly hungry and cold and exhausted. But, in the end, he had survived and nothing Skinner could do to him could match that. Could make him give that up. 

Skinner's eyes narrowed a little as well. "I'll do more than try," he replied and his voice was suddenly softer and even reasonable. Entirely too reasonable. He took in a deep breath and his head tilted, the distant light reflecting off his glasses, hiding those eyes. "But where are my manners? You must be cold. Maybe even hungry. Thirsty." 

They weren't exactly questions and Krycek didn't bother to answer. Fuck, the man must see how he was shivering even from there. As much as he probably knew that Mulder hadn't given him anything to eat or drink in the last ten-twelve hours. Hadn't let him out of his sight for that matter. As if he were afraid he'd simply vanish into thin air the second he took his eyes off of him. 

The velvet tone peeled back from a corner of the steel then and Skinner took a small half-step towards him. "Get up." The words left no room for argument. 

Krycek struggled back to his feet, hating the awkwardness of it. How it must make him look. Finally, he lifted his head and fixed his eyes just over the other man's shoulder, waiting for him to give his next order. Waiting for the violence to resume. 

Skinner took another step towards him and he tensed despite himself. God, he couldn't stand to be hit in the stomach again. Not tonight. Especially as hard as the older man could hit. 

But the other man only took him by the arm and yanked at him again, almost hauling him off his feet, hauling him after him as if he were some errant child. They walked across the living room and into a room across from the stairway. Without any warning, Skinner hit a switch and a couple of overhead fluorescent lights came on. 

Krycek winced away from them, momentarily half-blinded, but his captor didn't respond. Not even to blink his eyes. Then he was hauling him across that room as well, sliding a chair out from beneath the table and shoving him roughly in its general direction. 

"Sit down," he said. "And shut up." 

Krycek closed his mouth on the sharp retort he was about to make and sat on the edge of the chair offered to him. A sudden spike of rage drove through him a moment later as he realized and resented just how quickly he had responded, obeyed that familiar tone, and he pulled at the cuffs, welcomed the ragged pain as the metal tore at his wrists. He threw his head back and tightened his jaw. Glared up at the other man. Met his dark eyes with a harsh look of his own. 

"Go ahead and fool yourself," he said in a low voice, almost whispering the words. "Make yourself believe that you're better than me. That you're more than just a tool. A puppet of their whims and their agendas. They play you, Skinner, just like they play Mulder. Just like they play everybody." 

"Even you?" The question was quiet, giving nothing away. No more than his eyes. 

Krycek let out a soft sound, something not even close to a laugh. "Fuck, yeah." He dropped his gaze a little then, deliberately letting the other man think he could no longer meet his gaze. "At least, I have the guts to admit it." 

Skinner didn't answer. When Krycek looked up again he saw the other man had gone over to the counter, was flipping a switch on the coffee machine there. A red light immediately came on and it began to percolate. He opened a cupboard and pulled down a couple of mugs and set them next to the coffee machine. A container of sugar and a spoon followed. 

"You take it black?" the older man asked. "Otherwise, I have sugar and might even have a little milk if you'd like it." 

Krycek shook his head, caught Skinner looking at him out of the corner of his eye. Couldn't read him at all. Whatever the man was up to, though, he didn't want any part of it. Skinner was never nice, had never been nice, even when he'd been working for him on the up-and-up. Been acting the part of a legit and respectable FBI agent. Not that he'd taken the treatment personally at the time or thought it suspect; AD Skinner was well known in the Bureau for being a hard ass, most especially to those agents under his command. It was one reason the group had arranged for Mulder and his X-Files to be assigned to him. They had thought he would help rein him in, keep him out of trouble. Out of their hair. Yet another misjudgment on their part, much like adding Scully to the equation later. 

Both of them had only helped to make Fox Mulder more formidable. 

Which is why he had been assigned to try and take him down. To tear it all apart. To destroy all the fragile alliances that had been built and that now served to support Mulder in his quest for the truth. 

When, instead, when all was said and done and the dust had settled, the bonds between them had only seemed to grow tighter with all their trials. Their pain. Not that it really had surprised him by that time. Maybe the members of the group had never read Nietzsche, but he had. 

They hadn't been killed, so they had been made stronger. 

Much like him. 

If only he could stop shivering. 

Skinner moved away from the counter and pulled out another chair, dragged it around until the seat was facing backwards and straddled it. His legs spread to either side, one arm laid across the back. He looked relaxed. Relaxed and dangerous. 

As if all it would take was one wrong word, one wrong move, and he would be out of that chair and across the thin layer of space that lay between them. 

Krycek forced himself to gaze calmly back at him, then to look around the room, trying not to make it appear like he was paying any special attention to anything in particular. Noting to himself the set of knives placed next to the stove. The old glass and brass oil lamp sitting on a small side table. The iron baker's rack across the room, just a few cookbooks and a plant sitting on it. Not enough to slow him down if he thought to use it. To throw it at the other man. 

If the other man uncuffed him, even if for just a moment... 

When he finally looked back at Skinner, though, the older man didn't look worried. In fact, that veneer of amusement was back again. Making his eyes almost look human. 

"Now, who's being the fool?" he asked, his voice patently soft. "Agent Mulder would never forgive me if I let you get away. Besides, you've had your chance at me already, haven't you? Made the most of it. As if kicking a man who was down was something to be proud of." 

"It was just business," Krycek responded, then couldn't help but add a slight sneer to his tone. "Nothing personal." 

Skinner nodded. "I can see that." 

The smell of brewing coffee had begun to fill the room and Krycek thought he'd never smelled anything so good. His stomach began to bitch about its emptiness rather than the punches it had taken lately. He swallowed before he could catch himself. Turned his eyes away before he could reveal anything else. 

Still, he saw Skinner shift slightly. "Just so we understand each other," the older man went on. "Tonight..." He paused, waiting until Krycek couldn't help himself, had to look at him again. "Tonight is personal." 

Krycek looked into those dark eyes and suddenly it was as if all the distance separating them had abruptly vanished, leaving him nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. The rest of the room fading back into some dim and unimportant world, one that couldn't touch him anymore, couldn't even come close. All he could see was those eyes, that regard, heavy and hot and almost cruel in its sheer intensity. 

He retreated before it, damping away all his feelings, his fear, every bit of himself that could get in the way of his survival. Of finding a way to kill this man if he had to. His new boss wouldn't like it, wouldn't approve, especially if it screwed up his plans for Mulder, but he would deal with that if and when he had to. 

He shut himself away and hardly felt a stir even of fear, this time, as Skinner suddenly rose. Just followed him with his eyes, feeling as if his face were a mask now. And, maybe, the older man could see it, too, because he was moving forward and fingers tore into his arms and hauled him upwards. Hauled him against the other man and he could feel the heat of him even through his clothes. The anger, restrained and not restrained. And he readied himself for another blow. To make close acquaintance with the floor yet again. 

But Skinner didn't hit him. Instead, he spun him abruptly around and slammed him forward into the edge of the heavy kitchen table. Shifted his grip and pushed his upper body down on the surface of it, then slid a hand up to the side of his head and pressed that down, too. Held him there, fingers digging into the shape of his skull. 

The older man leaned down over him, spoke right into his ear—a thinly veiled reprimand. "Pay attention, Agent Krycek. Didn't they teach you that back at the Academy? Or did you just forget? Like you forgot you were supposed to be an FBI agent. Forgot you were supposed to be working for me and not against me, lying to me, spying on me. Maybe I should go ahead and give you a refresher course in proper respect for your superiors." 

As an emphasis then, he lifted his head a little and slammed it back down. Hard enough to hurt, but not hard enough to hurt anything. 

"Do you hear me? Boy?" 

Krycek closed his eyes, not answering. Not responding. Not even fighting. There was no point to it so he just held himself still, waiting. 

Skinner's fingers tightened and then he was being hauled back up off the table and that big fist was coming at him again—too fast to dodge—and pain exploded in his gut again. Hot and electric and consuming. It bent him over, slowly sent him down to his knees, gasping for air. His vision dimmed by the shock of it, by his efforts to breathe, simply breathe. 

Rough fingers grabbed him by the back of the neck and forced his head up, forced him to look into the face of the man standing over him. 

"Do you hear me?" Skinner repeated the question. 

This time, he nodded. But it wasn't good enough. Dimly, he realized that the other man was on the verge of a real rage, the first time he'd ever seen him like this. 

"Answer me," Skinner all but snarled. 

Reluctantly, feeling nausea rising up through him at the same time, Krycek nodded slightly. "Yes," he whispered, gasped. 

But the grip only tightened, digging mercilessly into his flesh. Yanking his head back even further, straining his neck to the point of pain. 

"Yes...what, agent?" 

Krycek stared back up at those furious brown eyes and knew what the other man wanted him to say and not only didn't he want to say it, he couldn't say it. Couldn't give in, couldn't give him that, no matter how much it might end up costing him. Even if Skinner killed him right the very next second. 

And somehow, from some depth far beyond the pain—from some dark and frigid place that felt suspiciously like one he had known not that long ago, wasn't ever likely to forget—he found it within himself to smile. It couldn't have looked like much, but there it was. 

Skinner's eyes narrowed at the sight, his fingers closing down on him, twisting a little as if they were about to snap his neck. But an instant after that fury peaked, it somehow damped down again. As Skinner obviously and with great effort reined himself in. 

The other man cocked his head at him and, amazingly, gave a little smile back. Or something approximating a smile, if the very act of smiling was something that was made up only of lips stretching over bared teeth. 

"Stubborn son-of-a-bitch," Skinner commented softly, with hardly any emotion in his voice. Hardly any force at all. Just a hint of something that sounded strangely like regret. 

He let go of him and Krycek almost fell again. He slumped down and closed his eyes, desperately clenched his teeth and began working on clamping down on his breathing, on controlling it, on controlling the lingering sickness and pain in his stomach. Distantly, he heard the other man walking away from him. Walking over to the kitchen counter. Pouring out something, the scent of coffee rising again, the aroma even sharper this time. Richer. 

"Sugar or milk?" He heard Skinner ask again, a polite question, as if nothing at all had happened between the last time he'd asked and now. "Last chance." 

Krycek swallowed hard several times and managed to straighten up a little. The pain in his stomach knotted with the effort and he had to force down another surge of nausea. He did not want to think of what Skinner would do to him if he spewed his guts out on his clean kitchen floor. 

"Sugar," he whispered. It felt more like a concession than he was really comfortable with, but he definitely didn't want to chance getting hit again. At least, not in the stomach. Not with that pile driver that his ex-boss called a fist. 

"Sugar," Skinner repeated, once more with that soft voice. 

Krycek glanced over at him from beneath his bowed head, his half-closed eyes and watched the big man put a spoonful into one of the cups, stir it around briefly. The clatter of metal on ceramic sounded overloud in the room. 

Skinner picked up the coffee, then, and moved back to the table. Sat down in his own chair, right way round this time, and placed both cups in front of him. He lifted the one on the right and drank from it, appearing not to even glance at the man left kneeling on his floor, appearing to be completely absorbed by enjoying the steaming hot liquid. 

Krycek didn't trust it for an instant. Didn't trust him. He knew just how quick Skinner could be back out of that chair and smashing his face in if he really wanted to. If he gave him cause to. 

More cause than he had already given him. 

But Skinner continued to sip his coffee quietly, seemingly glancing off into nowhere, and finally Krycek rallied himself and slowly got back to his feet. It took him several tries, during which he began to wonder if there wasn't any part of him left unbruised. Any point to this exercise at all. 

Finally, though, he made his way back over to the chair that the older man had shoved him at earlier and sat down in it again. Let out a long breath of something caught between relief and resentment. And still Skinner didn't look at him, said precisely nothing, not even to comment on the sweat running freely down his face. 

Krycek didn't care; it was all he could do not to betray to the other man just how bad he was feeling right now. His face and eyes seemed hot, burning up even, but the rest of him felt frigid. His stomach one great knot of black ice, black pain. If anything, he felt worse than when he'd first been hit, been left out in the wind. 

'Think warm thoughts...' The fucking bastard. He'd kill him for this, for all of this. Someday. Somehow. He'd hurt him. Hurt him as much as he'd been hurt and then hurt him again. 

Still, Krycek couldn't quite suppress a shudder as he leaned back in the chair and finally looked over at his host. Shot a quick and what he hoped was a circumspect glance at him. His hands looked even more massive wrapped around that cup, didn't even look the least bit bruised by what he'd done tonight. What he'd done to him. 

Krycek's eyes fell to the second cup—his cup—sitting there so serenely just a few inches from circle of Skinner's arms. Far out of his own reach, even if his hands were free to actually try and snatch it up. And he was thirsty, thirstier than he had realized, but he doubted his stomach could handle it right now even if it was actually in the cards that the other man would give it to him. 

Skinner lowered his own cup a fraction, held it as if he were warming his fingers with it. "Drink up," he said mildly. "Can't let it get cold. Nothing worse than cold coffee." 

Krycek closed his eyes again, then opened them. "You fucker," he said, but without any real heat. 

One eyebrow went up a little at that. Skinner took another brief sip, then set his own cup down. Stared pensively down into it. "Maybe," he said quietly, so quietly Krycek wasn't sure if he'd really heard the word. Certainly wasn't sure what he meant by it. 

Then Skinner rose and took both cups away with him. Set them on the counter and brought out a glass instead. He filled it from the tap and brought it over to him, stood there looking down at him. 

Krycek thought about kicking him, but the thought of what Skinner would do in retaliation made it seem far too costly an effort. Besides the water he was holding right now in front of him looked too damn tempting. He swallowed around a suddenly dry throat. Then looked up at the face of his former almost boss. As if a man could really serve two masters. 

"Tell me one thing," Skinner finally said quietly. "And you can have this." 

Krycek knew it was likely a trick, that he would probably end up regretting it, but he couldn't see any harm in asking. 

"What?" 

"Did you kill Fox's father?" 

Krycek closed his eyes, turned his head away. Whatever he had been expecting, he hadn't been expecting that. Maybe a question about why he'd beaten up on Skinner so hard that day. A question about who he worked for. What he was up to. Where the DAT tape might be. Professional questions, questions that pertained to this man and what he had done to him, how he had fucked him around. Fucked him over. But not that question again. Mulder's perpetual question. His eternal accusation. 

It didn't hurt him—didn't touch him—when Mulder asked it anymore, but Skinner... 

Why the fuck did he want to know that of all things? And why the fuck was he using Mulder's first name? The name he sometimes found himself whispering in the middle of the night—that he had held to himself those long and unlamented hours in that metal coffin, shivering and dying so fucking slowly he couldn't hardly stand it—a name that he'd never had the chance to say in the day. Not even to get himself reamed out for it by the man who hated it so very much. 

"Well?" Skinner abruptly asked. "Do we have a deal?" 

"No," Krycek found himself spitting back at him before he could stop himself. Stop himself from revealing too much. 

"No, we don't have a deal or no, you didn't do it?" A reasonable tone. Entirely too reasonable. 

"No, we do not have a fucking deal," he replied, his own tone far too harsh, too tight. 

"Too bad," Skinner said. He lifted the glass of water to his own mouth and Krycek watched him drink it, drink it all, with evident enjoyment. With a dramatic play that struck him almost as hard as one of the other man's blows had, making the blood pound in his head, behind his eyes. His hands clenched and a sharp pain seared his wrists as he realized that he was twisting them inside the metal cuffs, shearing and straining at the unrelenting steel. 

Skinner lowered the empty glass, gave him a mild look through those glasses, one that abruptly infuriated Krycek beyond caring anymore about what the other man may or may not do to him. His control snapped and he kicked out at him, aiming for his knee. 

But the other man stepped back out of reach with a swiftness that belied his size and Krycek's foot hit empty air and the miss unbalanced him. He and the chair went in opposite directions, but he somehow managed to catch himself at the last second, turn it into a roll and end up back on his feet. Without hesitation, he immediately surged towards the other man and, this time, hit him before he could react, taking him hard in the stomach with the edge of his shoulder. 

Skinner hit the counter and slid down it a little before he could stop himself, a look of surprise on his face. The glass in his right hand dropped to the floor and shattered beneath their feet. But Krycek was already pulling back, spinning around, aiming another kick and, this time, it connected. Not as well as he would have liked, but it connected. 

And it was the older man's turn to crumple, to fold around his abdomen. To let a sound half-way between an exclamation and a curse. 

But he recovered swiftly, Krycek had to give him that. Because, as he spun again, trying for his knee again, aiming for real pain and disablement, Skinner reached out without warning and snatched his foot out of the air. Caught it in a unbreakable grip and twisted it, twisted him half-sideways and down. 

Krycek landed hard, his right elbow striking the floor a glancing blow, his head clipping one of the table legs. Clipping it so hard he actually heard the sound as well as felt it, the dull shock of it, as if he had actually taken a dive off the balcony and ended up on that pavement so far below. His vision greyed out and for a few long moments he forgot how to breathe. Forgot everything. 

When he remembered again, Skinner was already kneeling over him, shoving him onto his back. Holding him there with one hand to his shoulder, while the other slid around the side of his head, combed through his hair. And air came rushing back into him at the touch, air and pain as bright as a lightning bolt—tattered scattered bits of things he couldn't quite call thoughts, couldn't quite call feelings. He just stared up at the man and couldn't move, couldn't get his mouth to work. Couldn't think of one word, let alone try and string them together. 

Skinner mumbled something and belatedly Krycek found he could recognize that word at least. Could certainly commiserate. 

"Shit." 

Skinner's fingers moved away from the back of his head and the older man stared at them, then shook his own head. Cursed again. 

There was blood on his fingers. Not much, but enough. 

Enough to seemingly bring him back to his senses, to make him look down at Krycek with something that looked suspiciously like concern. It blanked out a moment later, though, when he met his eyes and Krycek blinked up at him. Opened his mouth and, this time, found he still did know how to speak, how to find the words he needed. 

"Is...all of this...off...or on...the record?" And found he really did have it in him to hate the man as he added, a half-beat later, a sharp and clipped. "Sir." 

For a long moment, he thought Skinner was going to haul off and hit him again, then the older man only frowned at him. A pensive look—one he thought he remembered having seen before—the kind that Skinner took on when he was being forced to make a decision between two less-than-perfect options. 

"C'mon," the older man said at last and hauled him up, not quite as roughly as before, but not at all gently either. 

The movement still made Krycek's head spin and he seriously thought he might not be able to keep from throwing up this time. Still, he fought it down, breathing as slowly and carefully as he could. Skinner held him through all this and Krycek found himself concentrating on those hands, those fingers, twisted into the front of his jacket. Despite the fact that Skinner had ridden a desk for a good many years, they were a working man's hands—blunt and thick, with the nails clipped off square and short. Neat hands. Big hands. 

Hands he had made the uncomfortable acquaintance of a little too often in the last few hours. 

Finally, he managed to straighten a little and Skinner must have been waiting for this, because he immediately turned with him and pushed him towards the door back to the living room. A wave of dizziness instantly swept over him again and Krycek felt like he might have fallen again, except that the older man kept one hand on him the whole time, guiding him across the room and towards the stairs. 

He balked at the bottom, leaning against the wall and half-turning to look at the other man, but Skinner's face was giving nothing away. After a second, his grip tightened, though, and he nodded at the stairs. 

"I'll carry you if I have to," he commented quietly. "But I don't think you'd like that." 

Krycek didn't answer, but after a few long moments, he let his eyes drop again. He didn't know what Skinner was up to and, right this very second, he wasn't feeling much up to caring. Not much up to fighting, either, when it came right down to it. Maybe, he should play along, hope that the older man would relax a little, give him a chance. A chance for what, he wasn't exactly sure; he wouldn't get very far in these cuffs, with no i.d. and no money. With Skinner and Mulder and his new boss after him for skipping out on them. 

No, he had to stay. Had to be here for Mulder in the morning. That was the plan. That was his job, the one he'd taken for the price of his life. 

He just hadn't known, at the time he'd taken it, that it was going to hurt so very much, physically at least. Other hurts, he'd been more than expecting. 

Expecting. Not anticipating. The brief time he had spent with Mulder as his partner and secret Judas had taught him the essential difference between the two. 

He made it half-way up the stairs nearly on his own power, before the steps decided to tilt slowly sideways on him. Dimly, he felt Skinner's arms go around him and then a brief blankness fell on him like a wet blanket, suffocatingly heavy, dragging him down with its weight alone. 

The next thing he knew, he was somewhere far too bright and white and he couldn't quite keep his eyes open and his stomach was coming up in shearing little waves of pain and sourness. The last time he'd felt this way, felt this bad, it had been dark and he'd thought he'd been dying, had been wishing himself dead. 

It went on and on and then finally released him a little, enough for him to suck in a few ragged gasps of air. To try to straighten up. But it was too soon, too much, and another shudder ran through him and was immediately followed by a half a dozen dry heaves, each one worse than the last. Red-laced light beat behind his closed eyes this time with the sheer effort of it—heat lightning flashing in his brain, turning his thoughts increasingly black around the edges—and was followed by the bare edges of panic. It wasn't going to stop this time...wasn't going to stop until he was dead, until his insides were splashed all over the floor. 

Until there was nothing left of him. Nothing... 

Krycek struggled, but was held, restrained, a deep voice talking to him. Words that sounded almost soothing, certainly aiming to be calming. And, slowly, slowly, the spasms began to die away, leaving him feeling drained and listless. His body a distant memory. His face pressed to something vaguely cool. He swallowed a few times, his throat burning with the movement, his mouth tasting bitter, his insides sore and hollow. 

And then he was being lifted again, was leaned back against a solid body and heat, and something soft and wet brushed across his face and mouth. He knew he should be objecting to this, but it was a vague impulse, easily abandoned. Besides, he couldn't seem to find his legs right now, let alone get them to work. Breathing was about all he was up to at the moment, and even that was an effort. 

"Here," he heard that voice say, and then something was being held up to his mouth. A glass. The rim clicked on his teeth as he opened his mouth a little and then sweet cool water was washing away some of the sick taste. He swallowed down several gulps, felt it soothing his throat as well, before settling deep inside him. The hand took the glass away a moment later. 

"Easy, easy..." He was chastised. 

And for a few uncomfortable seconds, Krycek understood, as he thought he was going to just end up losing what little water he'd drunk, but he desperately held his breath and the feeling slowly passed. Only then did the glass return and he took another couple of sips, more cautiously this time, before turning his head away slightly. Refusing the rest. 

Carefully, he opened his eyes again and the brightness wasn't so bad, this time. He realized that he must be in Skinner's bathroom. That he was half-sitting, half-kneeling on a blue and white tile floor, directly in front of a gleaming white porcelain toilet of which he had made a rather personal acquaintanceship with not that long ago. 

That the half-empty glass of water had been set down on the floor next to him and that one of Skinner's arms was still around him. 

"Sorry," he whispered, though he didn't quite know what he was apologizing for; it was Skinner's own damn fault, after all, the least he could do was clean up after him. Though, it was rather more surprising, almost a touch disturbing now that he thought of it, that he had. Maybe, Skinner was just doing a good-cop, bad-cop routine on him all on his lonesome. Or, maybe, he was just a fucking lunatic as much as Mulder was, but rather better at hiding it. 

Either way, Krycek almost wished himself back out on that balcony. At least, that way, he'd know what to expect, what his enemies were—old enemies, after all—that of cold and fear and the dark that always seemed to come with them. What waited and watched in the dark, knowing he would have to return to it eventually. 

"Krycek?" 

He jerked at the sound of his name, his eyes snapping back open. It unnerved him a bit that he hadn't realized that he'd closed them again, that he'd slumped further down into the other man's arms. 

"Yeah?" His own voice sounded rough, uncertain, and he worked to firm it back up. "What the...fuck do you want now?" he said, a low snarl. 

"Do you think you can get up?" The slow words seemed to rumble right into the back of his neck and he realized that Skinner hadn't reacted to his tone at all, that he could feel the other man breathing, a sure, steady movement, that his own body was trying to unconsciously match. 

"Yeah," he replied, managing to keep everything out of his voice, this time. Managing to keep it expressionless. As if it were really a question, that he had any choice in what Skinner did or didn't do to him. With him. 

The other man moved away and Krycek sensed him getting to his feet, sensed him standing over him. He closed his eyes a moment, gathering himself, then opened them again and strained to get to his knees, to try and get his feet back under him. Cursing the feeling of helplessness that grew in him as he struggled, hampered by both weakness and the fact that his hands were still trapped behind his back. He found himself swaying about half-way up, a dizzy sick feeling swirling through him, and was on the verge of taking a dive back down to that cool tile floor, when one of Skinner's hands reached out and nabbed one of his arms, held him upright long enough for most of the sickness to ebb away. 

Krycek finally glanced up, turned his head slightly and inadvertently caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror over the sink. Sweat was beaded on his forehead and all the color had faded from his skin, even, it seemed, from his eyes. They looked more grey than green right now, bloodshot and so very tired. He looked like he'd been worked over by an expert. He looked like hell. 

He tore his gaze away and, with a sharp little twist, wrenched himself free of Skinner's grip. He turned around to face him and straightened to his full height, suppressing the wince as the movement pulled at his tender stomach muscles. 

The older man stared back at him, and, after a second or two, a calm, rather removed expression settled over his face. The look of the Assistant Director about to receive the details of a report he really didn't want to hear about, but was going to have to anyway. 

"No," Krycek said at last, his own voice also calm, distant. The word almost seemed to echo in the small room. 

"No...what?" Skinner asked. His tone suddenly turned almost soft, as if in response. 

Krycek swallowed before he could catch himself. With an effort, he pulled himself up another notch straighter. Stared directly into those dark and relentless eyes. 

"No, I didn't kill William Mulder," he said. "Though I would have, if it was what they'd told me to do. If that had been my orders. Sir." 

The word fell like a stone between them, a sullen plunk of weight going down into deep water. Tiny waves spreading and circling and cascading steadily outwards. 

"And you think I should believe you just like that?" Skinner asked quietly, too quietly. "And, if you are telling the truth, do you honestly think that admitting to this now, after all that's happened, absolves you in the least? You betrayed your country, your training. You betrayed your partner." The rest—the betrayal of Skinner, himself—remained unsaid, but Krycek heard it anyway. 

He shook his head slightly. "I never betrayed my country or my training. Not until they betrayed me. Not until they—he—tried to kill me. Then, I just..." Suddenly, he couldn't take it anymore and his eyes fell. He stared down at the tile beneath his feet, at the ragged hem of his jeans. "I was just trying to stay alive. That's all." 

Skinner's voice seemed to deepen, his tone softening even further, turning deadly. "And Agent Mulder?" 

Another stone. One that dropped somewhere deep inside him, tearing through layer after layer, all the protective walls he'd attempted to erect to protect himself from what he'd had to do. What he had done. The hurt he had caused and regretted so very badly sometimes that he couldn't even defend himself against the man. Not even when he was hitting him, hurting him. Threatening to kill him. 

"Go on—do it, do it!" His own words suddenly crashed through him, bringing with them the memory of having Mulder holding him hard against the bank of phones. Bruising him with the gun barrel, the arm across his throat. The smell of his own sweat and fear rising, circling and circling, waves as cold as ice. Shame and despair and hopeless hunger. Eroding at the last of his control. Making him yearn for it all to end, for the shock of the bullet, for the hot spill of his own blood. Anything to alleviate what had become all too unbearable. 

He could have died, that day. He should have died. Mulder should have killed him. God only knows, why he hadn't. It had been almost as if the other man had somehow known what was going to happen to him—what fate awaited him in that bathroom—and desired him to live long enough to meet it, to suffer a death far more painful and lingering and lonely than he could have given him. 

Not that even that punishment had proved to be enough. Not for him. Not for... 

"Mulder," he finally managed to say. Was mildly proud that he could get the name out at all. That the word hadn't come out all broken and shattered pieces. 

"Yes," Skinner said, his voice growing abruptly clipped again. Harsh. "You remember Agent Mulder. The man you were assigned to assist. To protect. The man you hung out to dry. Who you lied to time and again. Who your old boss had drugged to the point of psychosis. And who finally trapped him in some train car buried in the middle of fucking nowhere. Where he almost died when it was fired to destroy the evidence. The evidence they didn't want him to have. That they would kill to protect. That you've killed to protect." He paused suddenly, let out a breath, and his voice dropped again. To something disbelieving, hollow and shockingly tired. "Hell, according to his story, they did succeed in killing him, this time. He told Scully he died, anyway. That, somehow, he came back." 

"And you believe that?" Krycek asked, knowing the answer was a no. And a yes, at the same time. Much like most of Mulder's reports, his work. His whole damn life. 

He glanced up and saw Skinner shake his head, saw that the big man had slumped a little, the corner of his mouth turned down as if he'd bitten into something sour, something rotten and bitter and unforgiveable. 

Krycek dropped his gaze again as something sharp and jagged abruptly twisted deep inside him, as if someone had just reached out and gutted him. Left him dangling there on the point of that ragged blade. He closed his eyes and they burned beneath his closed lids, a red haze growing to fill and blind him. As he finally realized just why Skinner was so damn angry with him. That the rage that moved him to lash out tonight, that was driving him to hurt him, wasn't so much about himself, but about a certain agent under his command. A certain agent that he obviously had feelings for—feelings that it seemed likely even he didn't even realize the true extent of, let alone find himself capable of expressing in any other fashion than that which was acceptable. 

Skinner was lying to himself. Skinner was in love with Mulder. And Skinner hated him for betraying Mulder and maybe even hated him for being partnered up with Mulder in the first damn place, as if he knew, on some secret level anyway, that Krycek had feelings for the man, as well. Feelings he had never been allowed to acknowledge either, let alone give in to. Feelings he had had to disregard lest it cost him his own life. 

Where it had almost cost Mulder his. 

Was still costing Mulder... 

But Skinner was looking at him again and, though his voice had grown no stronger, his eyes were deadly. A cold anger, this time, far more frightening than the hot rage of earlier. 

"I don't know what to think anymore," he said. "Or, like Mulder, who to trust. No matter how hard I try, it all just seems to be slipping away. Slipping right through my fingers." 

"Skinner..." Krycek said softly. 

But the older man was shaking his head again. "But not this time. This time...you aren't going anywhere. Not if I can help it. And, this time, you're going to pay for what you've done. Even if I can't make the rest of them pay." 

Krycek swallowed back the rest of what he was going to say. Entirely too aware that all it was likely to do was dig him into a deeper hole. One that Skinner was likely to be eager to fill in once he'd hit bottom. He let his head fall slightly while he looked around the room from beneath half-closed eyes, trying to find a way out. A weapon. Anything. 

But there was nothing and when the attack came, it was not as he'd expected. The hand that came towards him wasn't aimed at his stomach at all, but instead grabbed him by the collar and half-turned him, knocking him off balance. He fought to remain standing, but Skinner just put his other hand to the back of his neck and thrust a leg between his, took him the rest of the way down in a half-controlled fall. 

Krycek had barely hit the floor before he was being dragged forward by those same hands, his knees skidding across the tiles until they hit the side of the bathtub. Then Skinner's hands shifted on him, pushed down on him, bending him far forward—his ribs scrubbing hard across the rounded surface—until his whole upper body was pinned over the edge. His head half-way down in the tub. Completely out of balance. Completely helpless. 

Nausea stirred inside him again, but he fought it back. Fought it down. 

As he fought down the sound that tried to escape as his cuffed wrists were grabbed again and twisted up higher behind him. Twisted until his shoulders screamed. 

And, now, Skinner's breathing was no longer calm, no longer steady, as he shifted around behind him, as his whole weight came down on his back, on his bound arms. As the older man pressed his groin up against him and ground it in, letting him feel the massive knot of his cock. Letting him feel how hard it was. 

And Krycek realized with a dismay almost as sharp, almost as crushing, what the other man was up to, what he was intending, as a hand snaked around and began fumbling with the front of his jeans. 

"No," he hissed, ignoring the pain in his ribs as he angled back and forth, trying to get out from under him. 

But the older man ignored his protest, ignored his renewed struggles, as he yanked the zipper down in one rough motion, making Krycek wish for once that he'd worn underwear. Making him wince as the teeth caught and tore hair in passing, vainly hoping that it wasn't tearing skin as well. Other, more vital, parts. 

Then he clenched his jaw to keep back a gasp as the hand moved, as Skinner reached inside and, with as little finesse, grasped what lay within. Closed hard fingers around it and gave it a sharp tug, one that Krycek felt all the way to his eyes. As if every nerve in his body had suddenly been pulled half out of alignment. 

"No?" The other man breathed into his hair. "But isn't this what you do to him, Alex? Yank his chain? Lead him around by the balls? By his need to know?" 

Another tug, harder than before, then those fingers were tightening, squeezing, twisting at his cock. And he couldn't stop the sound, this time, the groan that crested and broke from the back of his throat. He stopped struggling, frozen in place by the shocking intensity of the pain. Afraid to move for fear Skinner would twist it right off. Or try, at the very least. 

"Well?" Another minute twist as emphasis. 

"Yes," he answered, the word more sob than sound. "Yes..." 

"That's right," Skinner replied. "You fucked him over, but good. Which makes it only fair, wouldn't you think, that the gesture be returned." 

He didn't know the other man was expecting an answer, until those fingers yanked again, pulling and twisting at the same time, making him jerk involuntarily, wrenching an actual cry of pain from him this time. A whimper. 

"Well?" Skinner repeated. 

"Yes," he whispered, the single word shaking, breaking apart at the end. God, please... 

"Yes," the other man echoed. "I knew you'd agree." 

And then he let go, pulling back from Krycek so fast, he almost fell face-first into the tub before he could catch himself. It was all he could do to slide back and to his knees. To just sit there on bent legs. Gasping for breath. His stomach churning again. His cock throbbing with each beat of his heart. 

Still feeling the imprint of those fingers on him. Hearing that silky-rough voice. That cruel question. 

Worst of all, feeling the humiliation of being forced to agree to his own rape. 

"Get up," Skinner ordered. 

Krycek closed his eyes a moment, then slowly and awkwardly pushed himself to his feet. He fought to stand up straight, a bout of dizziness coming over him again in the process. Christ, he felt like shit. And it didn't seem like it was going to stop anytime soon, either. If it wasn't Mulder, it was Skinner. Not to mention all the other "old friends" out there who wouldn't mind if he bit a bullet. Who would be happy to do the job. 

Skinner took a half-step back, gestured with his head at the bathroom door. "Move." 

Krycek shot him a glance, unable, in that moment, to keep the anger and resentment from his eyes, but the other man didn't react. Just stood there, waiting. Watching. 

As if entirely assured of his own obedience. 

Of his control over the situation. 

Krycek bowed his head again and played along, knowing he had little choice. At least, for the time being. Not that he would make it easy for him. He'd do what it took to survive, that was all. That was ever all. 

He shuffled forward and out into the hallway beyond, sensing Skinner falling in behind him. There was a doorway right across from him, the door standing partially open above white and grey speckled carpet, but it was pitch dark just beyond and he could see nothing of what lay past the first couple of feet. 

"Go on," Skinner added. 

He'd hardly walked inside, when the door slammed shut behind him, sealing him in the dark. Sealing him in with just the sound of the other man breathing. The dizzy feeling immediately returned, riding on the wings of a sudden and almost overwhelming panic, and he stumbled a little to the side. His leg impacting with bruising force into the sharp corner of what felt like the edge of a table. Something fell over on top of it. Fell off of it. 

Dark, oh God, not in the dark...not like this... 

But Skinner's hands were already catching at him, throwing him across the room. This time, his shoulder hit something hard and he fell, landing half-on, half-off a more yielding surface. The other man's bed, and he desperately snatched at the idea, held onto the thought that maybe he should be grateful for small favors, after all; the man could have chosen to do it to him right there, on the hard tile floor of his bathroom, rather than taking it to the bedroom. Except that, then, it would have been light. 

He needed the light. 

Krycek surged back to his feet and tried to make a run for the thin line of light pouring out from between the bottom of the door and the edge of carpet. Only to have Skinner come out of nowhere—a darker shape within the darkness—and slam him back with an unforgiving fist to the shoulder. The punch spun him back around and right into a second blow, this one landing almost directly over his kidneys. A cry tore free of his lungs as unbelieveable pain spiked through him and he fell, face-first, back down in the bed, started to slide down over the edge. Unable to stop himself, hardly able to breathe, his vision blanking out. 

Vaguely, he realized that if the man had wanted to, he could have killed him right then and there. Just a little lower, just a shade harder, and it would have all been over. 

He almost wished it would have... 

He didn't fight, couldn't fight, except to stay conscious, as Skinner took him and yanked him back up onto the bed, his legs hanging over the side. As he immediately began stripping his jeans down in rough little gestures, finally leaving them bunched up inside-out down around his feet. Not bothering to try and take his shoes off. 

Cool air rushed across his naked legs, then stole away the warmth hoarded between them as a hand came down and ruthlessly shoved his thighs apart. Spread him. Fingers pressing and kneading at his buttocks. Cupping and compressing his balls with both a familiar and impersonal touch, rolling and pinching at them. Finally letting them go with one last great squeeze that wrung a gasp from him despite himself. 

Krycek buried his face in the sheets below him, closed his mouth on one tangled fold. Trying to damp his panic in the smell of faint sweat and fabric softener. The smell of the man who was here in the dark with him, hurting him. Who was about to rape him. 

And Skinner must have stepped back and away, because he couldn't feel his heat anymore, could only hear soft rustlings in the dark somewhere behind him. He closed his eyes against it, against all of it, and tried not to let out the swelling tears. The pain in his lower back had settled down a bit, to something slightly more manageable, but it still hurt worse than the sullen pain in his abused balls, his aching cock. Worse even than the couple of slugs to the stomach that he'd already taken tonight. Not even Mulder had played so dirty with him. And he'd had opportunity and more than enough reason to. 

A drawer rattled open somewhere, slammed and shut again, and then he heard the sound of something ripping and the other man was back. The bed tipping beneath him as the older man put his whole weight down on top of him, one arm pressing up across the line of his back, fingers grabbing the nape of his neck and pushing his face further down into the bedclothes. A hard length rubbing up between his thighs, larger even than he had expected. Terrifyingly large. 

"I'd rather do you bare," a voice licked hot across his right ear. "But you probably take it up the ass from every old fart in your little boy's club, don't you?" 

He hadn't known it wasn't a rhetorical question, until those fingers tightened, dug into the tendons of his neck, then relaxed a touch once more. 

"Go on," that relentless voice half-snarled, half-whispered. "See if you can actually tell the truth for once." 

Krycek pulled his head further to one side and Skinner let him. He spat the cloth out of his mouth, spat back the answer with as great a lack of care. "No, no one's ever fucked me, okay? I fuck people over. Not the other way around. That's my job—my real job, you shit—and I'm good at it. I'm fucking great at it." He paused for breath and then let it all out, uncaring in that moment what he might end up having to pay for it. "I fucked Fox Mulder over and that little bitch of his, too, and, someday, I'm gonna fuck you over, too, Skinner. Worse than the rest of them. I'm gonna make you wish you were dead." 

"Don't hold your breath," the other man responded, seemingly unconcerned about his threat, his voice a sweet little tickle at the back of his neck. "It'll hurt either way." 

And then he was shifting around, spreading his legs even wider, and Krycek felt the head of that great cock slide across his inner thigh and center. Felt Skinner start to push. He instinctively winced away from it—shit, the man hadn't even put any lubricant on the fucking condom—but the older man grabbed his left shoulder and held him. Pinned him in place. 

Began forcing himself inside. 

Krycek bit his lip, hard and harder, tensing up despite his best efforts, as the man's cock stretched and split him, tore at him, working its way in tiny little increments past the tight muscle. Working him open. His stomach turned over and he felt sick again, blindly sick, and he couldn't do anything other than hold his breath, wish that the rest of it would at least be over quickly. That the man would just ream him out and then, finally, leave him alone. 

He opened his eyes, but there was nothing to see. He could only feel. Could only hear. The increasingly harsh breathing of the man on top of him. The weight pressing down on him. The impossible strength of those arms as they enfolded him, held him tight and helpless to the cock being shoved slow and slow inside him. And he hated that feeling, hated the dark and the memory of the dark, worse than the pain of being penetrated against his will. 

Because he had been helpless then, too. Trapped beneath another's need. Lost in the shadows. Blind in his own head. And he had screamed and screamed and no one had heard. No one had even known, not even Fox Mulder. The one man who should have heard, should have known. Who still wouldn't have helped him, even if he had figured it out. Not after what he'd done to him. 

To those he'd loved. 

Skinner pushed harder, grinding himself down full on top of him, and Krycek felt a pulling, a desperate cramping, growing and twisting inside him. Felt the other man begin to fill him, sliding deep and deeper. Sliding on a sudden heat that could only be his own blood. 

"Please." He heard a voice whisper in some far distance. Heard it pleading. "Please...stop...don't..." 

But it went on and on and he hadn't remembered until now and he realized now that he didn't want to remember, but it was too late. It was all welling up out of the dark where it had hidden itself, where it had lain as if waiting for him, for this moment, and he couldn't stop it. Couldn't hardly stand it... 

He remembered the woman in the bathroom and her eyes and the blackness that had swirled within them. How she had held him with arms even stronger than Skinner's and kissed him and all that blackness had come pouring up out of her and into him, rushing and choking, and it had hurt and he couldn't fight, couldn't get away, couldn't even scream, and he was drowning in it. Going down and down, like water down a drain, until he couldn't feel anything anymore. Just his own fear. The nearness of his death. The last bit of him huddling tighter and tighter, cowering, crying out for something. For anything to help him. 

For anyone. For the man who had sent him in here in the first place. Who had abandoned him... 

"Please," he whispered again. 

But Skinner wasn't stopping and it hadn't stopped either. The cold and merciless and inhuman thing that had taken him and used him and consumed him without care or pity or even a moment's pause for his pretense of defiance. His final feeble begging. 

And when time had resumed again, when he had come back to himself, it had only been to the same dark and the same cold and he had been so weak and so very tired, and they had hadn't even bothered to grant him the courtesy of a bullet. Hadn't even stayed to watch him die. Had only left him alone. Always alone. 

Somewhere in the dark, a harsh voice cursed and a weight shifted on him, fingers biting into his flesh, and then all the memories were torn apart, shattered and scattered to needle-sharp pieces, as the pain inside him surged and peaked. As the other man slammed himself completely inside him with one final push. As he held himself there—one, two, three impossible seconds, achingly huge and hard, too large to manage, to bear—before teeth closed on his shoulder, a hand forced his head further down into the bedclothes again, and then the other man started at him once more, began pounding into him with increasingly sharp and brutal strokes. 

Krycek's throat closed up as tears stung at his eyes again. His whole body shook with Skinner's efforts, shook with his own effort to control himself and not cry out, not give the other man the satisfaction. Of that, at least. He closed his eyes and, this time, when he whispered, it was a name. A name that hurt him almost as much as what the other man was doing to him. More, maybe. 

Mulder had left him to the embrace of that black and alien thing and the slow death it had led him to. Mulder had brought him here and tendered him over to Skinner like an offering. All the while, taunting him time and again with his disgust and his constant accusation and the intensity of the pain in those hazel eyes. With icy distrust and burning hate and though, sometimes, he felt that it was something he deserved, that didn't mean that he had to like it. That it still didn't hurt to hear it. To see it. To know that he had fucked up with the one man in the world who might actually mean something to him. 

But he couldn't blame him. Couldn't hate him back. That was the worst of it. If he could, he would be able to move on. To forget about him. To kill him if it became necessary. To do what it took. 

Like he had, once before. 

And regretted now, regretted more than he could bear thinking about. 

Krycek felt something break loose inside him and he couldn't keep the tears back anymore, couldn't deny them. He cried into the bedsheets, silently and softly, as the other man kept on thrusting into him. Pounding into him. Sweat and blood slicking between their bodies. Hot pain knotting inside him. Sickness rising again, jamming up sour and feral at the back of his throat. 

But Skinner was speeding up already, spitting almost incomprehensible words at him—maybe his name, maybe just swearing, maybe nothing at all—in-between increasingly shallow gasps. Fingers dug into his left shoulder, down almost under the bone, as he shifted yet again. Trying for a deeper angle, trying to spread his legs even wider. As if he wanted to crack him wide open. 

And Krycek could feel it gathering in him, could sense the coming storm, and pushed his own face down into the bedclothes. Used the sheets to try and scrub his face clean. Whatever else, he couldn't—wouldn't—let Skinner see that he had made him cry. Couldn't let him know the horror of what he had made him remember. The hurt of the betrayal he himself felt regarding Fox Mulder. A betrayal that had crashed into him with all the force of a runaway train, that occurred now everytime he saw the man. Over and over again. 

He locked it all away, locked it back into that dark and cold place, even as other man rose up on top of him and pushed in one last time. Pushed in hard and deep and rough and let out a sound that was eerily triumphant and disappointed at the same time. And Krycek felt a greater heat flood him even through the thin barrier of the condom. Felt fingers closing on his flesh again, holding him to that heat. Forcing him to suppress a shudder at the thought of Skinner's seed spewing out inside him, filling him. Marking him. 

The older man collapsed on him, boneless and wet and heavy. "Alex..." he said, the name almost more a gasp for air than anything else. 

Krycek didn't bother to turn his head to one side, this time. "Done?" he asked, his voice low and even and utterly contemptuous. 

Skinner seemed to gather himself at the sound of it. "For now," he said. He raised himself up and Krycek felt him pull his still-hard cock out with a nonchalant gesture. Caught back the wince as the movement ripped at him. A trickle of something slithered down his inner thigh. 

He ignored it, as he ignored the weakness in his legs, in the pit of his stomach, as he half-turned and slid off the edge of the bed. Somehow, managed to get to his feet and stand there, looking and not-looking at the older man in front of him. The shadow of him in the dark, still breathing hard, a ragged sound. 

Almost as ragged as his voice. "Krycek, I..." 

"Don't," he responded. Pain threatened to make his own voice tear at the seams, but he held himself away from it. Ruthlessly commanded it, subdued it with the thought of how he would make this man hurt someday. Make him pay. 

Both for hurting him and for loving Fox Mulder. For making them one and the same. 

"You got your jollies," he added. "Now, leave me the fuck alone. Sir." 

There was a long silence. Skinner's voice firmed up, though it seemed to have lost that cruel edge of before. "Turn around," he said. 

Krycek did as he said. Standing there, stiff and contained, as he heard the other man walk across the floor. Heard the door open behind him, light spilling across part of the carpet, illuminating the edge of the bed he'd just known. Tasted. No doubt, stained with his blood. White sheets and a deep grey and red comforter, bunched up and likely smelling of him now as well as of the man who usually slept there. 

Who maybe even dreamed of Mulder, there. Of repressed desires. Secret needs. 

Footsteps sounded and then Skinner was behind him again, telling him to hold still. As if he could be any stiller. And he was obscurely proud of the fact that he didn't move, didn't make a sound, as the other man cleaned him up. Wiped away the blood and the sweat and maybe even some remnants of spilled semen, all the evidence of what he had done to him. 

The outward evidence, anyway. 

He didn't move, didn't say anything, until Skinner had pulled his jeans back up. He turned around then, without being asked, and looked out across the room as the other man worked the zipper. Straightened his shirt and jacket with a couple of quick gestures. 

Nothing surprised him, nothing touched him, until the older man turned again and picked up something from the table he'd knocked into earlier. A glass of water. Without meeting his eyes, he held it out to him. To his lips. 

And Krycek drank—not seeing any reason why he shouldn't, knowing he needed it—ignoring the fact that it felt a little like a peace offering. A faint and not very successful apology. Earlier in the evening, he might have considered spitting the last of it back at the other man, but he just felt too tired right now. Felt too distant from it all. From even the pain that continued to burn and pull inside him. 

Mulder would be coming for him in the morning—he had to—and there was a job to be done. His price to be paid. 

Skinner stepped back. "Move," he said, his tone suddenly flat again. As if he were already regretting even this lapse. 

Krycek walked, winding his control up even tighter as it hurt, as his legs tried to spill him back down to the floor. The stairs were an exercise in agony, but he managed them. Just barely. Feeling the other man right behind him the whole way, not wanting to have to have him hold him up again, to help him. 

Still, he was unprepared for the sudden shove between his shoulder blades and he stumbled half-way across the living room before he could catch himself again. Could pull himself back erect. 

Skinner moved past him and pulled the glass door to the balcony wide. Stood there next to it and looked back at him an expression he couldn't even begin to understand. 

Krycek tilted his head slightly and amazed even himself by the smile that suddenly crept across his face. "'Think warm thoughts,'" he repeated, enunciating each word carefully and separately. "Why, sir, one would never suspect you capable of such kindness. Of caring anything for those men who were once under your command. Who still are." 

The corner of Skinner's mouth twitched, but his dark eyes only hardened. Which was no more than Krycek had been expecting. No more than he wanted. 

"Don't worry," Krycek went on, lowering his voice to something approximating a conspirator's whisper. "I'll keep your dirty little secret, Skinner. I've kept so many others, what's one more. We're practically comrades, after all. I used to work for them and you..." He licked suddenly dry lips, not sure if he should continue, but unable to stop himself. "You took it up the ass from them and never even fucking knew it. For all I know, you still are." 

The other man raised his head and his glasses hid his eyes again, though they couldn't hide the repressed anger in his voice. In his manner. 

"Outside," he snapped. "Now." 

Krycek felt his smile slip and didn't bother to reclaim it. He'd gotten to him, the rest would just be the icing on the cake. And he could live without that. 

He might as easily not live with it. 

He moved forward and back out into the cold, into the wind, and focused out across the city, staring at the lights and the incipient dawn, as Skinner adjusted his cuffs once more, freed his left hand and reattached the right to the railing. He didn't turn back around or sit until he heard the door close again behind him. Until he felt the other man leave. 

Then he let himself sink down, wincing as particularly tender parts came into contact with the frigid metal of the floor. He studied the torn skin and bruised flesh of his left wrist for a moment or two, then tucked the hand away under his jacket, huddled back up against the curve of the wall. Felt the once again familiar pull on his right wrist and shoulder from the angle they had been forced into. 

Felt a faint wetness already starting to cool beneath him and ignored that, as well. 

He may bleed, but he wasn't going to bleed to death. At least, not before morning. Before Mulder came back to collect him. 

Not before the game continued. A game that he might lose, but not before Skinner had lost it as well. Before he insured that the other man paid as much, if not more, than he ever had. For his ignorance and his pride and his damn holier-than-thou attitude. For making him remember... 

His worst degradation. His greatest loss. The man that Skinner also loved and lacked the courage, hell, the fucking conviction, to do anything about. 

He didn't have to look up to know when the older man finally turned away from the window. When he went back upstairs and off to that lonely bed. Though he did wonder what Skinner saw and what he thought when he got there. When he saw the stains of what he had done laid out on those pristine sheets. 

Would he deny it, as he likewise denied Fox Mulder, or would he accept this, at least. Accept the fact that he wasn't as he would have the world believe. 

That...this too, they shared. 

Their similar pain. Their similar need. And all the lies that surrounded it. 

One more dirty little secret. 

* * *

FANDOM: X-Files   
PAIRING: Skinner/Krycek   
RATING: NC-17 (definitely)   
FEEDBACK: [email removed]   
DISCLAIMER: Okay, so now they're free for all (right? right?) Previously published in Dark Fantasies 8 (thank you JoAnn!) by Maverick Press.   
SUMMARY: What might have happened after Mulder left Krycek to Skinner that night on the balcony.   
WARNINGS: Non-consensual...oh yes, rubbing hands together, that's for damnsure   
SPOILERS: All eps up up to that infamous night. 

for Kristina, whose fault it all is to begin with...   
  
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End file.
